by Chuck Redman
Now buffalo, which you may not believe on account of their massive heads, horns, and shoulders, are actually one of the most nervous and skittish critters on the whole prairie. So much as a sparrow or a leaf in the wind could spook a buffalo and start her bolting across the plains, which means the entire herd—could be thousands—will run blindly after her for dozens of miles at a time. They don’t know why, they don’t know where: they just do. You don’t really want to be in the direct path of a stampede of bison if you can possibly help it. And, whereas I tend to be a bit on the dusty side, you don’t even want to be downwind. These noble critters kick up a load of dust.
So happens Lark is both: the critters and their dust cloud is simultaneously stampeding in her direction. Cept the wind musta came up and the dust gets to her first. She starts to cough and choke. No place to run to even if she could run half as fast as that thundering horde. Scout somehow is able to keep up his yowling and yelping as them buffalo grow near. And nearer they do indeed grow.
I can’t read the minds of buffalo or any critter, but I suppose if somethin as innocent as a prairie dog could spook em, then a big howling wolfish fella like Scout should send them bison into hysterics. And bless his heart, Scout keeps up such a wail that would raise goosebumps on a corpse and, no more’n a hundred yard off about two-thirds of that herd suddenly veer left (their left) and head down toward the river. They was pretty thirsty anyways, stampeding and all. Well the other third don’t seem to realize they been ditched, so they’re comin gangbusters. Not thirty yard from Scout’s nose, the lead cow all at once digs in her hooves and the remainder smash up behind her, and then they all disintegrate into a mad morass of panic, colliding, goring and finally turning tail in all directions. Scout yowls a while longer, for good measure. And as the dust starts to clear you would guess that right about now Lark is sincerely relieved and giving a prayerful thanks to the Great Spirit for not lettin her be pulverized by about seventy, eighty thousand buffalo hooves. That’s a blessing all right but the Great Spirit might have to wait on bein spoke to, since presently the young gal’s gone and collapsed unconscious in a patch of new sunflower and clover where the wind sweeps away the chalky dust that coats her pressed lips and deep locked eyelids.
After Janet lost the power of speech, she spent several minutes snortin little breaths out her puzzled nostrils and screwing her eyes up at her cell phone as if that Cosetti dude musta lapsed into Portuguese just before he hanged up on her. All she’s done since then is piddle, then she tried some dillydallying, and she even done a fair amount of lollygagging while she was at it. This from a gal who don’t never let the grass sleep on the job.
Lunchtime she restlessly looks out her office window, which she never does do by the way, and sees the limo heading straight down Platte Avenue. She mulls for a second then dashes downstairs, I think I mentioned she’s a jogger. Jumps in her car and heads down Platte likewise. Parks and walks toward Old Grateful. Sure enough, the limo’s parked there too and, on coupla big motel blankets laid out on the soft ground beneath O.G.’s generous arms, there’s Cosetti, Laertes and two young gals what look like interns or assistants or some such. The latter young fillies is both talking on their phones and writin notes on pads. Cosetti has papers spread everywhere around him on the blanket—legal materials, looks like, financial records, marketing stats, architect’s plans, an Environmental Impact statement or two, and a couple big bills from local caterers. Would you say that maybe this fella Cosetti has too many irons in his plate right now? Well, all the four of these Euphemion folks is eatin giant drippy burritos from Tacky Taco while they work. That is, Laertes ain’t workin exactly, he’s just readin the police notes in this morning’s Caterwauler, and kinda lookin around dreamlike at the birds and trees and river easing by. Once in a while a solitary cottonwood seed drifts past searchin for its longgone playmates, and Laertes will swipe at it but misses every time.
There’s a tall telescoped ladder fastened against one of O.G.’s lovely sidekicks, and upon the ladder is old E.M. Tinker from the historical society. With palsied hands he’s attempting to measure what he referred to in his interview with Rossiter as “a small arborglyph”—fancy word for tree carving—that looks to me like a man-bird riding an arrow. Somethin like that. The old professor’s writin measurements and descriptive words in his little notebook, and every once in a while pulling his bifocals off and glancing down with a smile at them two young gals with their legs angled so graceful on them blankets.
It don’t take long for Janet to buck up and march down that little woodsy path toward the river, every bit the journalist. Leaves and twigs strewn all about, she can’t exactly sneak up on anybody with her crackly footfalls. Seven eyes and one easy grin greet her. “Mr. Cosetti,” says she like they’d only pushed the pause button on their earlier conversation, “I somehow didn’t peg you as a nature lover. Gee I can’t imagine why,” and with palms, eyes and mouth all raised in mock wonder she searches the cottonwood firmament as if the clue just might be whispered there.
“Mmmh.” Seems like Cosetti’s heard that joke before. “Join us, Ms. Hinderson. You know Laertes, and these are my—”
“I wanna know why you memorized something from an editorial I wrote nine years ago and quoted it at me.” She folds her arms over her chest and juts a hip. “That strikes me as very strange and I think I’m entitled to an explanation.”
He goes and admits the allegation that he’s read her editorials but won’t say why. “It’s not something I can just glibly answer.” That don’t relieve the wonder in her eyes one jot. But then the dude up and offers “Perhaps over dinner tonight we could—” Sometimes half a shrug is all you got.
Six corporate eyebrows go up, Janet looks believe it or not almost tempted. But when it comes down to it she tells the worthy barrister she’s tied up for dinner.
“Mmmh,” is how he swallows that particular snub. But his grin wakes up pretty quick and stretches itself with a sniff of utter disinterest. The blue eyes of the press full upon him, the dude throws his last few tortilla chips for the birds and begins studyin an important looking spreadsheet. The only detail I might bother to point out—besides the Wind swooping in and rustling papers and leaves alike—is that the document Cosetti’s so absorbed in is upside down.
Well, while Janet troops back to her car, a dark figure hides behind a clump of willows and scans the vicinity like a mud-caked Cherokee scout. Standin there, watching like a hawk, a hungry hawk that ain’t caught but a sparrow or two this week. None other than your friendly neighborhood Independent Insurance Agent. I’ll be durned if, snazzy pinstripe suit and all, Kenny ain’t toting a fishin rod and reel over his shoulder just as casual as if everybody knows that Wednesday afternoons are for playing hooky from the rigors of selling insurance. The instant Janet drives off, Kenny’s on the riverbank, fly casting for channel catfish. With every cast, his eyes dart eastward toward them outatowners and he sidles downstream a yard or two. He’s soon within earshot, but he’s a regular Robinson Crusoe, Kenny is, that hasn’t an idea in the world that any other soul could be within five thousand mile of this uncharted wild.
All of a sudden, not but twenty feet away, he looks around him amazed. Why, there’s human beings here, lord a mighty! says Kenny’s wide brown eyes. Trouble is, nobody on them blankets is particularly interested in eccentric smalltown anglers, and he’s just a smudge on the landscape to them busy corporate cogs. Well, Kenny’s had to toss his pride away more than once or twice in his professional career. “Oh, almost had im!” shouts Kenny like a stage-actor in a noisy theater, reeling in an empty hook. No one’s paying the least attention when he looks around so he just laughs as awkward as that stage-actor’s understudy and slogs ahead in his muddy wingtips. Stumbling over gnarly roots and their little sprouted baby O.G.’s, he reaches the edge of one of them blankets. “Afternoon,” he says shouldering his fishin rod and eyeing them profit statements down by Cosetti’s feet. The folks look up and smile for a short secon
d, then look down and resume their business. No Solicitors Allowed at this here mobile office.
“Say,” exclaims Kenny with a snap of his fingers, “didn’t I see your picture in this morning’s—? You’re uh, you’re uh. With that big company that’s putting a, a—”
Steve finally grins a skeptical grin up at the poor devil and extends a hand. No sooner has the two fellas give out their names than Kenny starts speculatin aloud about the vast insurance needs of a meatpacking plant and how truly necessary it is to have a local insurance agent to stay on top of things and, oh by the way, it’s lucky they run into each other because he happens to have a written proposal right here in his suit pocket for comprehensive insurance coverage including fire, flood, general liability, workman’s comp, products liability, group medical, group life, group disability, long-term care, group auto and umbrella. Each item seems to pluck at Kenny’s right mustache while it drags Cosetti’s mouth nearer to the ground.
“Mmmh. I’m sorry Misterrrr—”
“Smold. Kendall Smold, P.I.A., C.F.P.”
“Well I’m sorry but my company places all its insurance with our agent in Omaha. You shouldn’t have gone to all this—”
“Listen,” and Kenny thrusts the proposal like a bayonet into Cosetti’s hands, “I can write a fifteen per cent discount into the comprehensive package, I’m willing to do that because—”
Cosetti shakes his head and Kenny pleads with the man to at least take the proposal to their finance department or set up a meeting or something. Well while Kenny buttonholes Cosetti, his forgotten fish line dangles above them young gals who’s busy with their executive duties on the other blanket. All of the sudden there’s a little cry from the nearest gal, whose hair extension is now hooked and bobbing, fightin for its lustrous blonde life at the end of Kenny’s fish line. Kenny and his mustache don’t realize he’s caught his limit and he’s up the creek.
Old E.M. Tinker looks down kinda tickled at the scene below, and Old Grateful looks down with a sad leafy wisdom that you can’t get from spreadsheets or software.
Summer is when kids oughta be out and about: baseball, tennis, swimmin at the big Pioneer Park pool up on 8th Avenue. But, on the other hand, if you’re more a poet than a pinch hitter, I guess you might spend your lazy June days writin verse. If you’re fifteen year old Brandon Sorenson, and you fancy yourself the young bard of Cottonwood, and there’s a newspaper essay contest about trees, then there ain’t no question but that you’re gonna spend one-third of Tuesday and almost half of Wednesday writin the best dang poem you can to send in for that contest. Well, Brandon’s done that, and it ain’t very long but he saves the final draft and emails it to his mom who’s re-readin Light in the Forest online out in the kitchen. Well, it don’t take long before Mrs. Sorenson, who’s the eighth grade English teacher at Cottonwood Middle School, calls out to Brandon that she’s read his poem and to please come out to the kitchen. Brandon says okay, and no sooner does he transfer their old cat Miss Havisham from his lap to his bedroom floor and march into the kitchen than his mom smiles and says “Dude,” and then “I’m blown away.” Which stops Brandon in his tracks and makes him blush that quiet blush that his mom just adores. So a hug from mom which Brandon tolerates for about a second, then he sprints back to his room to email the poem to the Caterwauler editor, in plenty of time for the final selection. Good thing the young man can type and click standing up, cause Miss Havisham’s in his chair and not inclined to leave her altar anytime soon.
It’s a good day to die.
Or it’s not.
That’s about it right there. That’s a pretty good rundown of the plains Indians and their view of things. They sit front row and center on the pageant of life. They see how life and death is sudden and everywhere. If it’s meant to be, it’ll be. No use buckin the system. That goes for humans, buffalo, dragonflies, or whatnot. Today the buffalo might outrun you. No sweat. Tomorrow the beast will lay down his life for you.
So the roaming village of Chief White Raven of the Arapaho tribe can chew on them deep thoughts if they got nothin else handy to fill their bellies whilst they track the buffalo across the Platte Valley. Or, they can wonder about the young Sioux gal with the long thick hair and what in creation she was doin fainted dead away in the middle of nowheresville. With about eight hundred thousand hoofprints all around. When she comes to—if she comes to, maybe—well, she scared me once before, this time I spose I ought to at least try and embrace the Indian philosophy and see if that don’t make me feel a bit less fretful and leave it in the hands of the Great Spirit. That might not do her any harm, and it might just help.
Anyways, Lark ain’t dead—that’s plain enough, cause her mouth’s been movin with some voiceless plea or prayer the last half-mile or so, and now she’s startin to groan real low and faint, and little flicks from her tongue come snaking over them parched lips. Two Arapaho gals walk alongside Lark’s “sleigh” which is a cottonwood travois, and now the younger of them two goes and sprinkles some tepid water on the girl’s lips and brow. The two big harnessed packdogs pulling that travois turn and let out thirsty yowls—they want some of that water too. This all seems to be good medicine, for soon one of Lark’s eyelids pries open, then the other, then they unglaze a bit and her inky pupils roll around some and finally lock into position. Then they don’t much like what they see. Which is dozens of strange villagers advancing behind her with full camp gear, and the ground weirdly receding away from under her. She would sit up and take stock, I believe, but she can’t. Her wrists are snugly lashed above her head to the poles of that travois. The older Arapaho gal chuckles. “Those rawhide bands tighten up nicely,” she says in her language, “when they dry in the sun, don’t they, Princess?”
Just behind and off to the side, two youthful Arapaho hunters stroll and gaze fondly at Lark as her distress mounts slowly, weak as she is. “Yellow Knife my friend,” says the tall long-legged one, “how about a footrace to that old buffalo skeleton at the foot of that knoll. Winner gets the Sioux gal for a wife.”
“Nuh-uh!” says Yellow Knife, a husky fella with short legs, as he grasps his heavy bow and quickly draws an arrow from his beaverpelt quiver. “First one to plant an arrow into the left eye of that skeleton from this little sandhill has first dibs on the gal. If she lives.”
The two admirers are near about ready to come to blows over how best to settle the right to Lark’s hand when they’re interrupted by the very voice of their newfound darling rising above their voices and above almost any sound they’ve ever heard in their brief bucolic lives. Now—whatcha need to remember right here is two things: first thing is that Lark has never sat down and learnt more than a coupla words of Arapaho, and Tricky Spider and Beyond the Tallow Creek ain’t especially useful terms in her present situation. Like all plains Indians, she knowed the sign language that tribes communicate with if they don’t speak one another’s tongue. It’s a rough system but it gets the general point across. But you need yer hands to do it. The second fact to keep in mind is that there ain’t no swear words whatsoever in the Lakota Sioux tongue. Nor in Arapaho neither. So I guess Lark, finding herself caught in circumstances nigh as galling and absurd as ever she’s found herself, she does what she has to do: sets her vocal chords to the highest setting and starts in ad libbing the worst, vilest-sounding made-up words she can produce on the spur of the moment. She makes it mighty clear that she is more than just a little displeased with her treatment and will tolerate it no longer. Struggling with her poor bound wrists, she’s carrying on something awful, is Lark Laying Eggs. If the prairies could blush, I’d be red not green. “That’s gratitude for you,” sneers the older Arapaho gal, who vows that next time they’ll just leave the spoiled child sprawled senseless in the middle of nowhere—see how she likes it.
Young Yellow Knife looks just a bit distraught, with his bow and arrow hanging at his side. He finally turns and tells his rival that he’s decided to bow out and let go all claim to the maiden’s hand.
“No,” says Gray Fox, the tall long-leg fella, “she’s really more your type afterall, I’ll wait for the next one.”
“Nuh-uh, you claimed her first,” Yellow Knife grouses back.
“Not on your life, chum,” yells Gray Fox. “Last one to the river and back has to marry the gal.” And off he sprints like the Wind in March.
“You’re a low down cheater,” hollars Yellow Knife through cupped hands, and he huffs after his diminishing buddy as fast as his stubby legs can churn.
Anyways, Lark pretty soon starts to wear herself out, and some of the Arapaho elders, who trade with Sioux villages all over the plains and know some Lakota, start talkin her lingo and signing as needed and they kinda counsel the unhappy girl not to waste her breath so much with all that screaming and bad medicine. “You keep hollaring like that, young woman,” says one of the traders, “and you’re liable to start another buffalo stampede.”
She gets quiet and subdued for a moment, then she starts lookin left and right sorta frantic and callin out Scout’s name. These Arapaho gents seem to savvy that Lark is missing her dog, so they explain that the big fella run off when they tried to put a thong round his neck. Hmmmh. I told ya how the Sioux people don’t hardly never cry outside of funerals. Sometimes, though, I spose there can be a funeral taking place right inside your very own heart.
